Ways to Say Thank You
by I Dont Know What Im Doing
Summary: A visit from John's mum prompts Sherlock do something unexpectedly nice, in a perfect Sherlock way. Rated M for Smut in the upcoming chapter. JohnLock. Slash/Humor
1. Chapter 1

**Just a small two or three chapter story. Hope you enjoy it. Warning for smut in next chapter.  
**

* * *

At the sound of glass breaking, John almost turned around and walked right back out the front door.

Running a tired hand threw his rain-soaked hair he called out loudly, the irritation clear in his voice, "I swear to god Sherlock, am I going to regret coming upstairs?" Taking a guess at Sherlock's answer, he made sure to add, "And don't lie to me!"

Sherlock hollered back from somewhere in their flat above, "John, don't be so dramatic."

It was a nice try on Sherlock's part but John couldn't help dramatically dropping his head against wall next to the door.

Why? Why did he put himself through this? Maybe it wasn't too late to phone his mum and tell her to meet them at the restaurant instead of the flat. Maybe it wasn't too late to cancel the whole dinner. Maybe he really was a complete idiot for thinking any of this was a good idea.

When his mum insisted on meeting his _'What the bloody hell do you mean you're dating a man? When did you start dating men? Why didn't you tell me this sooner? Did you think I wouldn't be okay with it, what kind of mother do you think I am?'_ boyfriend, he didn't think it was a bad idea, well not a terrible idea. The two of them meeting someday was inevitable; sooner or later his mum would end up in the same room with Sherlock Holmes, though maybe he should have waited for later; much, much later.

And at the time it hadn't seemed like a bad idea suggesting she meet them at Baker Street first, before heading out for dinner. Focusing more on explaining the bizarre clutter than worrying about whatever uncomfortable observations Sherlock would feel obligated to make during their introduction felt like a great idea. He didn't quite trust Sherlock's promise not to blurt out some embarrassing family secret. If the arrogant show-off discovered that John was actually adopted or heaven forbid that he was the product of some illicit affair between his mum and the postman, the fool wouldn't be able to contain himself. Oh yes, worrying about how to explain all the strange paraphernalia just about everywhere in the flat had seemed like very good idea.

However, leaving his quite often bored with a dangerous mix of overly thoughtful love alone in the flat for six hours before his mum arrived; John doubted he could have come up with a worse idea.

The possibilities of what awaited upstairs were endless. Sherlock becoming so involved in an experiment leaving the kitchen covered in bloody body parts was the mildest of what he'd grown to expect. The worse, he really didn't want to think about the worse. He feared his attempt at hiding his worry about the two of them meeting failed miserably, resulting in his overly thoughtful Sherlock once again decided to take it upon himself to distract John's stressed mind.

If Sherlock went down that route, John could easily imagine the entire flat covered in bloody body parts. It wasn't a stretch given the last time Sherlock tried to 'help' alleviate his anxiousness the entire kitchen ended up coated top to bottom in animal blood.

As the images of what might be awaiting him upstairs flashed across his mind, John closed his eyes and groaned. It would be so much easier to just leave right now, just walk out the door and go get pissed at a pub. All this worry was going to give him an aneurysm.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock shouting again, "John, stop thinking and just get up here. I need your help."

Oh god, what had he done?

Maybe Sherlock wouldn't hear him trying to sneak out, maybe his mum's train got delayed and she wouldn't arrive until tomorrow, maybe he would be lucky and just have that aneurysm right now.

Sherlock's deep voice boomed once more, this time interrupting a nice fantasy of lying on the foyer floor, exhaling his last breath. "John, are you going to help me clean this up or not?"

There was no use denying it, he was going to walk up those stairs no matter how much his mind begged him not to. Even if he did call his mum and tell her to meet them at the restaurant it would drive him crazy fretting about what Sherlock had done. His mum would insist on returning to the flat after dinner, would insist on seeing where he lived. He had to see what bombshell Sherlock dropped while he was gone before he could let her walk up those stairs.

With a sigh, a tremendously long drawn out sigh; all too wet from the unexpected rain outside, worn out from a day at surgery and mentally just plain exhausted, John trudged up the stairs, preparing for the worse.

What he saw when he reached the top wasn't the worse, so very far from the worst.

And it absolutely was the last thing he could have ever expected. So absolutely the last thing, John wondered if maybe he'd had that aneurysm and was having a near death hallucination while twitching on the floor. A vivid hallucination made more sense than what he was staring at.

The sitting room was clean. No, not just clean, it bloody well looked like a whole new room.

All the stacks of books were gone, the innumerable boxes no longer cluttering the room, the endless piles and piles of papers and journals that usually covered most the floor and furniture were missing. The bizarre items that normally littered the room were also gone; the skull, the harpoon, the crossbow, the lab equipment, the Trivia Pursuit board that had been skewered into the wall with a knife, all gone.

For the first time since the room had had the misfortune of being introduced to Sherlock Holmes, the sitting room was a proper sitting room. Neat, tidy, uncluttered, the furniture cleared, the floor freshly hoovered, and dear god it looked Sherlock dusted.

Then John saw the centerpiece of completely unexpected. Maybe he wasn't hallucinating and Sherlock had been replaced by an impostor or hell maybe an alien, somehow that seemed more likely.

Placed in the center of the wiped down, undusty coffee table was an artful vase overflowing with a tasteful arrangement of wild flowers.

It was too much, too thoughtful, too unexpected, too…Sherlock was definitely a pod-person.

Forgetting how his legs worked, John stumbled forward to peer into the kitchen, and just about tripped over his own feet. So, so far into the last thing he expected this was borderline impossible territory.

The normally dangerous to move about in kitchen was practically spotless. Most of Sherlock's lap equipment had been put away. The strange vials, containers and jars of items Sherlock insisted his life depended on storing in their kitchen, gone. All the broken appliances, the papers, journals and books normally stacked against every available wall had been removed. So emptied of clutter, John was surprised to discover that they actually owned a blender that was in one piece which sat gleaming on the counter.

The only objects out of place were a scant few pieces of lab equipment perched on the corner of the otherwise cleared kitchen table, a few broken pieces of glass and an odd-color liquid on the floor; and of course Sherlock. The small mess spoiled the near pristine state of the kitchen. Sherlock on the other hand, he caused the entire room to pale in comparison, even with him kneeling on the floor mopping up that odd-colored liquid and a scattering of broken glass.

His incredibly, wonderfully, without a doubt, thoughtful Sherlock had donned his finest suit in preparation for meeting his mum. Black trousers and matching suit jacket, with a dark blue dress shirt that caused his pale turquoise eyes to shine like sapphires.

The entirety of all; the swept up immaculate sitting room, the cleaned out kitchen, the stunning sight of Sherlock; all of it left John profoundly overwhelmed.

Sherlock blinked up at him while John just stared. What else could he do, stunned into forgetting how to walk, talk, think and probably his name if Sherlock didn't speak it right then.

"John, stop staring and help me. Your mum will be here soon."

He made the mistake taking another step and nearly tripped again, and the mistake of trying to talk. "You…it's…c...clean."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Clearly," and returned to patting up the liquid by his knees.

Walking, talking, thinking; all too difficult at the moment. "But you…how…it's so clean. I don't…"

Without glancing up, Sherlock cut off his botched attempt at speaking, "John, seriously."

"But…but…you cleaned!"

"I'm perfectly capable of minor tasks like cleaning. Stop acting so daft and get to helping me."

Sherlock went back to mopping up the floor, and John went back to being too overwhelmed to move or speak and hadn't gotten the hang of thinking yet.

The grown man might physically be able to clean yes but who was he kidding. John loved the handsome devil but felt no quilt in admitting Sherlock seldom did menial tasks without some type of benefit for himself. Even if Sherlock hoped his actions would reward himself with a rousing 'thank you' in the bedroom, spending hours cleaning went far beyond his normal tactics.

Sherlock, cleaning, for him…it was too much, too much for Sherlock to expect him not to just stare in shock. To not expect him to be overwhelmed with gratitude and an aching heart. God damn he loved the normally selfish bastard so much right at this moment.

"John, really. I straightened up. It's not that big a deal."

"Straightened? This isn't straighten up…this is…fuck Sherlock you did all this..."

Sherlock cut him off again, looking back up at him with those piercing sapphire eyes pleading for him to kindly cut it out.

Seeing those beautiful begging eyes, John realized he was verging on doing that thing Sherlock absolutely hates, hates so much he would probably walk out and lock himself in the bathroom for the night. God forbid the twit had to hear John say sweet words of gratitude, which was all John wanted to do at the moment. To just pick him up off the floor, wrap arms tight around him and shower him with kisses, to tell him over and over how wonderful he was.

Sherlock pleaded a little harder with his eyes and John melted a little more. Wonderful, adorable, thoughtful. Perfect.

"John…"

Calm, he needed to calm. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin this, for Sherlock to freak out with John plying him words of appreciation. He needed to push all that overwhelming gratitude aside. And there was a much better way to show his thanks.

After dinner John could say thank you in the way Sherlock loved the most, a way that would include lots of reminders of what his name was, and no worries about remembering how to walk or think.

And thinking of all the ways he would thank Sherlock's body with his own, his partner's imploring eyes began to shine, a small smile played across his lips. And in yet another surprising move, Sherlock went back to sponging up the mess on the floor, instead of his usual lustful turn when John started imagining rutting up against that naked body.

Oh yes, he was in for a 'thank you' of a lifetime tonight.

But for now, calm; needed to be calm for Sherlock. Still in wet clothes from the rain, shit he also needed to get ready for his mum's arrival. Taking a deep breath, John found some words and spoke with a flat tone, "Okay. Lemme get changed, then I'll help," and found his ability to walk, still a bit unsteady but he managed to take a few steps toward their bedroom.

Before he could get through Sherlock abruptly stood up and got in his way.

He spoke so nonchalantly it was unnerving. "Where ya going?"

"To change up, I'll help you when I'm done."

"You don't need to change, you look fine."

That unnerving feeling grew stronger. John scanned Sherlock's perfectly causal expression but saw no mischief behind it. "I look a wet mess."

"John."

"Just move. I'll help in a minute."

Sherlock's eyes danced round the room, at the mess on the floor, at John's wet jeans and jumper. Then John saw something odd in those eyes, there _was_ something going on in that mind of his. "I...you look fine, John."

"Sherlock?" What the hell was going on? John tried to dart around him once more but Sherlock was too quick, still blocking the way.

"Move you big git."

But Sherlock stood fast and that odd look got odder. John tried to place it but it wasn't one he recognized right off, making it all the more disconcerting.

John tried again to move around the lovely road block but Sherlock parried fast.

"What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Hmm?"

Fuck, he finally recognized that expression. No wonder he didn't place it right away, it was the look of a Sherlock mind racing to come up with a Sherlock plan. John was more used to the devious expression that followed, when the plotting fool had already come up with a way to get what he wanted.

"Sherlock? What's going on?"

"Mmm?"

Oh fucking fuck. His face shifted to just the one he was used to, a plan had formed. Sherlock smiled a smile that sent a shiver down his shine.

Looking behind him down the blocked hallway, John finally noticed bedroom door was closed, how had not noticed this before? This was not good, not good at all. That door was hardly ever closed. All his worry flooded back.

What had he done? What was he hiding in their bedroom?

Sherlock's plotting smile went right into a 'I'm going to distract you with my wily ways' grin.

"Oh my god, what did you do?"

* * *

**This was planned as a little one shot but grew and grew. It will only be about 2 or 3 chapters at most hopefully as I still have lots planned for that other long one still in progress. **

**Additional note - I realize it's not some brilliant teasing cliff hanger as to what Sherlock did, the story just got really long and was taking too much time to finish so I just broke it up so I would stop rewriting the first part. The second part, it's not meant to be a big shocker, it's kind of obvious I know, well not so obvious to John but it's mostly a story about his reaction to whats behind that door.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

A typical Sherlock plan showed in that smile, a typical plan to get John worked into such a state he would forget all about whatever bombshell Sherlock was hiding. Not a very well thought-out plan since it probably included both of them going at it bared-arsed in the kitchen minutes before his mum arrived, as things tended to go with Sherlock plans.

It was also a plan that wasn't going to work, not this time, not with alarm bells going off in John's overworked worry.

John asked again, no not asked, he demanded an answer before all those wily ways wiled a finely dressed body right up against him, with hands groping down his jeans.

"Sherlock! What did you do!?"

And apparently this newly formed plan didn't include giving him an answer, even if he demanded one.

Instead Sherlock did exactly what John hoped to avoid, slinking forward closing the distance between them quickly, fingers hooking into John's belt loops. Sherlock tried to draw them together, no doubt to perform a well-aimed wiggle into John's groin. And right on cue, the ponce added a deep, throaty, "John…" in exactly the tone that would normally makes his legs go weak.

Oh he was good, but not that good. Not today.

John backed up a step, away from that inevitable hip grind, and glared daggers at the conniving bastard, the only being a seductive siren to prevent him from seeing what was in their bedroom bastard. There was a time and place for Sherlock to use all that stored up knowledge of how drive John into a writhing mess of moans. True it was most times and just about every place, but not here, not now. His temper was rising fast, knowing just what he was up to.

Ignoring Sherlock's lecherous smile, the fingers still tugging trying to pull them close, and the slight tightness in his jeans due the sound of that deep throaty voice, John growled at him. "Tell me what you did right fucking now."

Sherlock ignored him right back, biting at his lower lip, his eyes throwing promises of delightful distractions. Such tempting distractions...John silently cursed himself for having those vivid thoughts of a naked Sherlock writhing underneath him moments before, and cursed Sherlock for picking up on it all too easily and using it against him.

Sherlock reached a hand up to John's collar, playfully thumbing the damp material, acting completely oblivious to his growing irritation, throwing in another purr, "John."

"I swear to God Sherlock, don't even think about it."

He went right on in such typical Sherlock behavior John might have laughed if he wasn't about to lose his mind. A standard Sherlock "hmm?" while he continued to thumb at John's shirt, eyes showing a bit of wild. The wild John both dreaded and loved, depending on the time and place.

God damn him, it was nothing more than a means to divert. A means that would lead to an end with John's jeans around his ankles bent over the kitchen table hollering out Sherlock's name loud enough for his mum to hear from the doorstep. It was infuriating that he would pull this shit now.

Why did Sherlock have to make things so difficult? Why always with the games, always toying with him?

Why couldn't he have just said bollocks to the whole night and gone to a pub?

"Damn it Sherlock. I'm getting past you even if I have to knock you on your ass."

The wild started to show cracks, that throaty voice a lot less throaty. "But John."

"No! No you cut this shit out right now Sherlock."

For the love of all that's holy, the bloody bastard pulled out his other favorite trick, a little frowny pout.

Too much, it was too much for his stressed mind to take.

All these tricks, all these ways to keep John from discovering his secret, all too much. Christ, he didn't want to get angry, he really didn't. Not after all Sherlock had done, after spending so many thoughtful hours cleaning and clearing up the flat…oh for fuck's sake.

John looked around Sherlock to the closed door and back at that pouty lip. "You didn't?"

Sherlock's eyes were pleading again, begging him to let it go. "John…I can explain."

"No, just no please, please Sherlock, please tell me you didn't."

A simple aneurysm, why couldn't he be unconscious right now? Sherlock dropped his head not meeting his eyes and it was all the answer John needed. He had, he bloody well had.

Clenching his fists, he took a deep breath and calmly said, calm but with murder behind it, "Move."

Sherlock moved out of the way with a resigned sigh, backing up to the wall.

Not giving Sherlock a chance to change his mind and attempt any more games, not letting his own mind have a chance to start begging him not to open that door, John swiftly walked down the hall. Taking one last deep breath, he turned the handle, threw the door open and immediately wished he had left the flat when he'd heard breaking glass.

This was exactly the typical Sherlock bombshell he'd come to expect. And a bombshell was pretty close to what he saw.

The bedroom looked like the aftermath of an explosion.

Everything, every fucking thing that had been _cleaned_ from the sitting room and kitchen has been haphazardly thrown into the room. Quite literally tossed in, not placed, oh no placed in neat piles would be far too difficult apparently.

The floor and the bed were littered with tipped-over boxes of books. Broken appliances hurled into the room so carelessly he saw dents in the walls, chucked in with enough force to break apart the more fragile ones, the door to the toaster over had fallen off spraying bits of burnt toast across the duvet. Lab equipment, vials, jars everywhere. The larger items thrown in as well, there was no question of this, as the harpoon was jutting out of the wardrobe door, the samurai sword piercing the bed, slicing through the duvet.

And the papers…the mountains of papers, plus journals, magazines and notes; thrown in only to land wherever they floated down, blanketing everything.

A perfect image formed in his mind of Sherlock grabbing at items in the flat, jogging over to the doorway and just pitching them in. What the hell could he have possibly been thinking?

Clearly nothing, as no one would ever think while doing this.

The bedroom was without a doubt a completely and utter disaster. It would take hours to clean it out.

John's head throbbed. Too much…It was all entirely too much, too ludicrous, too insane to comprehend. He wanted to rant, to cry, to smack Sherlock upside the head. He could feel a rage building, every swear word he knew forming in his mind.

Then he saw it, two its actually.

The first it...In the madman's fury of dumping every sodding thing into their bedroom room, his asinine partner had taken a brief moment to clear off the debris from his night table and place his treasured skull next to his clock. He could see it, clear as day, see Sherlock gently placing it down and giving it a loving pat on the top before dashing out the room like a lunatic.

That might have been enough, but combined with the other it, John knew exactly how he was going to react to the catastrophe of their bedroom.

The other it...Hanging at a unbalanced angle right over the bed, a sharp dagger piercing it dead center, the Trivia Pursuit board had been re-stabbed into the wall. A nice spot where John couldn't never miss it. Now he saw Sherlock jumping up to stand on the bed, stabbing at it forcibly so it wouldn't fall, a pleased with himself chuckle before jumping down.

He couldn't possibly let John forget his spoiled fit at losing their last game so badly, badly due to throwing the board across the room which John insisted technically meant the whiny brat had lost the game. Wouldn't let him forget the tantrum that followed which ended with Sherlock being unable to keep his whiny mouth shut and having to sleep on the couch for a week. And couldn't let John go one day without a reminder of that very lively, romantic and enjoyable week with two bodies trying to figure out how to get comfortable on their too small of a couch and not a lot of sleep. Sherlock, who hated expressing loving emotions in words, enjoyed using that board game as a constant way to let John know just how much he did in fact love him.

In his haste to completely destroy their bedroom in an attempt to clean, Sherlock couldn't help himself. Couldn't help making sure his bizarre prized possession was undamaged and making sure his strange symbol of affection was prominently displayed.

It was all so perfectly like him, so perfectly Sherlock.

And perfect reminder of the reasons John loved his bizarre, strange and unconventionally thoughtful boyfriend.

And absolutely the reason John knew how to react to this mess. Starting with getting back at Sherlock for using his wanton ways to keep John from seeing what he had done.

Because what better way was there to say 'thank you for being you' then to toy with the clever detective.

* * *

**I know this was far too predictable, never meant it as a big surprise sorry ) This was story that had been in my need to finish eventually list and I needed to just get it out of my head so I could work on others.  
**

**Updated noted - I added the story that gives the background on Trivia Pursuit board, called The Threat. It explains in more detail why this 'it' is quite treasured for both of them.  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Oh my, I'm sorry this is so late. Too many things going on in my life that kept me away from writing.**

**This chapter is not exactly what I planned, I wanted to finish this story with this part but since I'm so far behind on everything I put it up so I can get to finishing the end.**

**I hope you enjoy it, feedback and reviews greatly appreciated.  
**

* * *

John stood in the doorway looking into the wreckage of the bedroom while he considered what to do next.

Normally when Sherlock had done something profoundly stupid, John didn't put much thought at all into how to respond since he was too busy swearing uncontrollably, his temper usually getting the better of him.

But those 'its', Sherlock's precious skull on the night table and the Trivia Pursuit hanging above the bed standing out among the chaos of the room, seeing those John wasn't angry in the slightest.

Maybe he should be angry since he could easily imagine Sherlock coming up with some _clever plan_ when he had started throwing everything into the bedroom. A plan which probably included making that little spill in the kitchen to keep John occupied before his mum arrived, that terribly shameless stunt in the hallway trying to quite literally charm the pants off him as backup to keep him from getting to the bedroom, and he just knew Sherlock _planned_ on John cleaning up the mess in the bedroom after his mum had left.

But even knowing all of this, he wasn't angry, not a bit. No matter how idiotic and scheming Sherlock might be, he was also the obsessively observant Sherlock who had picked up on all John's worry about his mum's reaction to the state of their flat. Also he was the oddly thoughtful Sherlock who had probably decided that making the place look presentable was completely worth getting yelled at for hours because of the mess he had made of their bedroom. And most importantly he was the strangely sentimental Sherlock, the one who while destroying their bedroom in a mad flurry had paused to take gentle care of his beloved skull, his most treasured keepsake, and to skewer that Trivia Pursuit board above the bed so John couldn't forget it, a bizarre sign of affection from the even more bizarre man.

So many Sherlocks, but they were all parts of the strange man he had fallen in love with. His perfect Sherlock.

Nope, he wasn't mad at all but he still needed to figure out what to do next, because next involved thanking his strange partner for being every bit of who he was, and to say thank you in all the ways Sherlock loved**,** while also getting some much deserved revenge on the scheming prat. And also he needed to come up with plan that worked around his mum's eminent arrival.

His mum who would be knocking on the front door in less than ten minutes. If only he had called to tell her to meet them at the restaurant instead of the flat as soon as he'd gotten home and heard glass breaking.

And then it hit him, just the right way to get Sherlock back, to delay his mum's arrival and thank the impetuous fool exactly how he would appreciate it the most, by John pulling the perfect prank on him.

With a planned formed, John pulled the bedroom door closed and nearly jumped when he turned around. Sherlock had silently walked up to stand unnoticed directly behind him.

Sherlock, who just minutes before was playing the part of seductive vamp was now groveling Sherlock. His shoulders slumped forward, head hung low but with guilty eyes peering up while chewing nervously at his bottom lip. The just over six foot tall man, who often used every inch of his height to be intimidating and imposing, and more times than John needed to count had stood fearless in the face of danger, now looked like a penitent child ready for his scolding, waiting for John's predictable stream of cursing, swearing and ranting.

He looked so pitiful John almost didn't want to tease the bastard. Almost, if not for all the damn tricks Sherlock had just pulled.

Before Sherlock could pick up on John's plan, he needed to throw him off and the way to do that was with doing the unexpected. Cowering in front of him, John could see Sherlock was expecting his usually volley of epic swearing. So instead of the yelling and cursing, John crossed his arms over his chest and gave his groveling partner a good old 'my head hurts too much to deal with this shit right now' sigh. "You said you could explain, so start explaining."

Not losing his shit already had an effect. Unprepared for anything but shouting about what a sodding ass he was, Sherlock's mouth opened and closed a few times before he stammered, "I...w..well…I just…you…"

At the same time, his eyes danced across John's face while the detective tried desperately to read him, trying to work out why John wasn't completely losing his mind. Well that wouldn't do, John interrupted by tapping his foot loudly on the hardwood floor showing his increasing impatience. "Explain faster."

Quickly Sherlock blurted out, "You'd just been so concerned about what your mum would think of the place."

"Go on."

"I wanted to surprise you. Make it look nice for you." Sherlock paused, waiting for John's reaction.

Keeping his supposed cool was having just the right effect. Instead of attempting to study him, the schemer batted his bright eyes up at John and a weak smile played across on his lips, glimmer of hope that he might just get out of this by being adorable Sherlock.

Arms still tight across his chest, John nodded back to the closed door concealing the wreck of their bedroom and calmly said, "So this was your idea of making it look nice?"

Sherlock's smile grew, oh hopeful indeed. For good measure he softened his deep voice, practically cooing when he spoke. "I did try to straighten up properly." His eyes sparkling like sapphires from his deep blue dress shirt blinked up at John, batting his thick lashes.

Even knowing it was all an attempt to play on his emotions, Sherlock's dazzling eyes and smile were all too sweet and innocent and adorable and bloody hell, John was tempted to wrap his arms around him and smother him in kisses right then and there. Almost, but the memory was still too fresh of when the ponce had tried to distract him with that other smile, the 'if I had my way you'd have a cock up your arse when your mum showed up' smile when Sherlock had tried to keep him from their bedroom.

He also knew what was soon coming from that honeyed mouth any second now. John's foot tapped against the hardwood floor again, the sound echoed in the small hallway. "And?"

Hopeful Sherlock's eyes looked so perfectly innocent when his sweet lips spoke a perfect lie. "It was taking too long."

It was so utterly predictable John almost laughed, almost but instead he scowled, scowled and threw daggers back at Sherlock in his glare, daggers sharp enough to stab a Trivia Pursuit board into a wall. Touching on a hint of anger at seeing right through Sherlock precious little fib, John demanded, "And the _real_ reason you decided to chuck everything into the bedroom?"

The daggers in his stare were sharp enough to dash Sherlock's hopes of getting out of this by using doey eyes, innocent smiles and lying through his teeth. He lowered his head back down, shifted about uncomfortably and muttered, "I got kinda bored with it."

Almost where he needed Sherlock to be, John snapped louder, "Christ Sherlock. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

Sherlock's shoulders hunched further down and he seemed afraid to speak, so afraid the fearless Sherlock would be ashamed. He mumbled an answer so low John couldn't make it out even with him standing only inches away.

Bless the poor bastard because John knew just why Sherlock was afraid to answer that question, and maybe he should feel like a bit of a bastard himself for pretending he didn't but no, he didn't feel like a bastard at all, not after that perfectly predictable lie.

Sounding right on the edge of losing it, he growled, "Sherlock, answer me."

His dark curls flopped as he dropped his head further down and Sherlock hesitantly said, "Planned for that after your mum left."

"What do youNope, he didn't feel like a bastard at all. mean you planne…oh bloody hell Sherlock. That mess in the kitchen? You planned that to keep me busy, didn't you?"

Seeming to have found something interesting with his shoes, Sherlock didn't look up and only replied, "Hmm?''

"God damn it, Sherlock!"

Sherlock spoke barely above a whisper when he answered, "Maybe."

But at the same time as he spoke, Sherlock did one of the most unplanned, unintentionally adorable things John had ever seen from the normally composed man.

With his head still hanging low, not meeting John's eyes, one of Sherlock's finely polished shoes did a little pivot at the toe into the wood floor, a slight twisty turn of his foot like a shameful child caught in a lie. It was such a simple little move but it was quite honestly the most endearing thing the normally imposing, intimidating, fearless man had ever done. Sherlock has since denied it ever happened, insisting John only imagined it, but he knows what he saw and it was so damn precious fluffy bunnies could never hope to be as adorable. So bloody adorable John had to cover his mouth with a hand to keep from giggling.

It was entirely too much, all of it so darling and so pathetic. John wouldn't be able to hold his composure at this rate, he was so close to cracking up. Sherlock's defenses surely were down enough for what John had planned next.

With one last show of being on the edge of losing his shit, John sharply said, "Maybe? You _maybe_ planned that?"

Sherlock managed to shrink further and began stammering out an answer but paused when he saw John fish out his mobile from his back pocket.

John added the final touch, taking a deep breath, letting it out measured and slow, as if trying to not let his temper get the better of him. Rubbing at his temple, John said, "Sherlock, I'm too damn tired, too damn wet and my sodding head hurts too much to deal with all this right now."

Glancing back and forth between John's face and his mobile, he could almost hear Sherlock's mind racing trying to determine what he was going to do with it.

And what he was going to do with it was hold it out to Sherlock.

"_You_ are going to call my mum and make up some reason why she has to meet us at the restaurant while I go get cleaned up."

Nope, John still didn't feel like a bastard. It was just the right amount of revenge, forcing Sherlock to talk to his mum on the phone unprepared. Sherlock knew all too well how much Mrs. Watson loved to talk and talk and talk, but it was a fitting punishment for all the deceits his devious partner had tried on him. And he'd played Sherlock exquisitely. Not putting his clever mind to use trying to determine if John was up to something, Sherlock was now focused more on John's rising anger and just as John had hoped, his mind was reeling at what John's suggestion, well no, not a suggestion, he wasn't giving Sherlock much of a choice. Either he could either phone John's mum or be subjected to the tirade he was hoping to avoid.

Glancing back and forth between the mobile in John's outstretched hand and his face, Sherlock's eyes went wide with panic. "But John...can't you call her?"

John violently shook the mobile in front of him. "Nope, _you're_ doing it. And when you're done you're going to clear me a path to the bloody wardrobe so I can change up."

Sherlock's voice trembled. "B...but…what do you want me to say?"

John stabbed the phone at him but his groveling partner didn't move. "Make up some excuse, I don't care what you say."

"You want me to lie...to your mum?"

It appeared he had panicked Sherlock right into being frozen in place so John reached out and grabbed one of Sherlock's hands, plopping the mobile into his palm. "Oh don't tell me the brilliant Sherlock Holmes can't think up another lie. Make something up or tell her we'll be late because you're moronic jackass, I don't care which but you're doing it."

Sherlock's hand held out the mobile as if it were a bomb about to go off. "John, I..."

"End of discussion." And at that, John turned abruptly and walked into the bathroom. He took one last look back before slamming the door closed. Sherlock, never looking less intimidating, imposing, fearless, just stared at the mobile in his hand.

With his revenge in motion, John set about thanking his perfect Sherlock while he listened to the masterful detective bumble his way through his mum's endless questions.


End file.
